


Forget-Me-Not

by blueskyscribe



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Shattered Glass
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-05-31 00:23:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15107867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueskyscribe/pseuds/blueskyscribe
Summary: Violence and brutality are the hallmarks of the Autobot army.  But when you're an Autobot built like a stack of sticks, you develop other methods.  A Shattered Glass tale.





	1. Chapter 1

Rung repeatedly told the guards to be careful with prisoners. He reminded them that Lord Prime expected certain standards to be upheld.  He emphasized that he couldn't communicate with prisoners effectively if they had a concussion.

Yet here was a guard shoving a scraped and battered Deadlock into his office.  The yellow and grey Decepticon brought his manacled hands in front of his helm as a shove from behind made him stumble faceplate first to the floor.

Rung's eyebrows drew down over his round red optics, giving the guards a stern look as they retreated—not that they seemed to notice.  Tsking to himself, Rung pulled his Decepticon guest upright—with some effort, as Deadlock outweighed him by a considerable amount—and planted him in a chair.

"I apologize for the boorish treatment—"  He snatched his hand back as the Decepticon snarled and twisted to bite at him, but Rung's tone remained calm.  "You're Deadlock, is that correct? My name is Rung. I've been assigned to be your psychiatrist."

Deadlock stared at him with a blank expression, like he was waiting for a punchline.  It was foolish, Rung reminded himself, to feel hurt or slighted at the lack of recognition.  Of course he wouldn't remember seeing Rung. No one remembered Rung. He kept a smile on his face as Deadlock asked, predictably and sarcastically, if he turned into a ladder.

* * *

Deadlock sat tensely on the edge of his chair, glaring at Rung.  It was their third session and Rung couldn't help but be anxious about the lack of progress.  He had removed the Decepticon's shackles in the last session hoping to inspire some kind of reaction, positive or negative.  So far nothing. Rung put on an unconcerned face and pretended to be wholly focused on painting the Autobot insignia onto a model of an Inquisitor-class warship.

He looked up and smiled as he caught Deadlock glaring at him, because eye contact was better than nothing.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Rung said.  He balanced the ship on his fingertips, beaming down at it.  "It's one of the least aerodynamic ships in the fleet," he continued, "but it's also the most iconic—"

The scrape of the chair was his only warning.  He looked up to see Deadlock leaping towards him, silent and grim. Rung closed his optics and went limp to rob the blow of its impact.  Still, Deadlock's fist caught him under his chin with enough force to lift the skinny maroon bot out of his chair.

It was  _ more  _ than enough to trigger Rung's self-defense mods.

Electricity crackled over the entirety Rung's frame as soon as Deadlock connected. It hurt. It always hurt. But it always hurt Rung's assailant more than himself.

For a split second Deadlock stared at him with wide blue optics, gaping foolishly as lightning crawled up his arm; one of his eyes blew out as he collapsed onto the desk.  So Deadlock didn't get to see Rung's magnificent, cacophonous crash into the cabinet.  It teetered, sending paperwork, glue, and brushes raining down on him. Something sticky poured down Rung's head, rolling over his shoulders and down his chest.  Model paint. He scraped it away with his hands.

After his frame stopped prickling he picked out a rag from the cabinet, wiped his servos, and rolled Deadlock off the desk.  With a regretful half-smile he swept the Inquisitor, the most feared and heavily armed ship in the Autobot army, into the garbage bin;  it had proved no match for the weight of an unconscious Decepticon landing on it. Rung reached for his comm.

"I need someone to transfer a prisoner back to his cell.  Not Shock or Ore, please, I'd prefer someone who won't leave him worse than they found him."

"Sure thing, Ring!" Swerve's voice chirped over the comm.  "Err—what room are you in again?"

Rung's fingers slowly curled into fists as he told him.

* * *

Rung did not request medical care for Deadlock's cracked optic and apparently no one else did either because it was still nonfunctional when the next session rolled around.  Rung felt a twinge of guilt at the sight but, he reminded himself, it was Deadlock's own fault for attacking him. And that model ship had taken two weeks to assemble.

"I'm afraid our previous session was cut short," Rung said comfortably.  "But we've learned something about each other, haven't we?"

Deadlock was as silent as ever, but a bit of uncertainty was sliding into his one-eyed stares.  

Rung made no attempt to fill the silence.  Unscrewing a bottle of paint, he began rubbing it onto his plating with wide, practiced swipes of a painting cloth.  He had already been half-covered with it, and it was a nice color, so why not?

"That's—"

Rung looked up; Deadlock looked away, wetting his upper lip.

"That's Earth stuff.  That's Earth language."

"It's English, yes."

Deadlock stared at him suspiciously.  Rung could understand his surprise. Most Autobots wouldn't be caught dead using a product manufactured by organics.  But Rung was more pragmatic. Organics had their uses, like everything else.  Everything in its place.

"Who are you really?"

"I'm a psychiatrist like I told you, Deadlock.  I'm a therapist."

"Don't need one.  I'm not crazy."

"Anyone can benefit from introspection.  I'm here to help you."

Deadlock gave a short, ugly laugh and his injured eye flared for an instant.  "Yeah right, and I'm a microscope. 'Bots don't help 'Cons."

"Most of my patients are Autobots, but there's no reason why I can't help you too."  He paused a moment. "That's why I requested that you be transferred from Prowl's care to mine."

Deadlock's clawed fingers dug into the arms of the chair.  "You think I'm dumb? You think good cop, bad cop is gonna work on me?  Prowl didn't get nothin' out of me," he snarled, "and you won't either. I'm a 'Con through an' through.  I'll die before giving up—" He snapped his mouth shut abruptly.

"There's no need to be so coy," Rung said mildly.  "You'll die before giving up the location of your base, is that what you going to say?"  Deadlock didn't answer, so Rung went on. "Everyone knows Prowl was looking for the location of a secret Autobot base.  A haven for your elite.  But it's not a subject that particularly interests me."

"Yeah, right. Fragging liar.  You 'Bots are all the same."

Again, Rung pushed down a slight feeling of hurt.  Of course he could understand why Deadlock would think that, considering his perspective.  It was understandable.

And Rung's  _ job  _ was to understand.

Tactfully, he changed to subject. "I've read through your files, Deadlock.  I'm sorry you had to deal with Prowl. His methods can be . . ." He paused.  "Overzealous."

"Overzealous," Deadlock repeated.  His laughter was scornful, if a tad shaky too.

Rung gave him a pitying look, but he felt a pleased smugness pooling in his spark.  How right he'd been to steal him from Prowl's grasp. As if that fool would have achieved anything anyway.  He'd  _ told _ Prowl that this one wouldn't break.  

Well, the interrogator had had his go; now it was Rung's turn to try his own talents.

He took a cube of energon off the warmer and poured each of them a cup.

"I understand, Deadlock." He smiled pleasantly and pushed the cup into the Decepticon's clawed hand.  "More than you know."

Patience.  Patience.


	2. Chapter 2

 

When Deadlock had been captured by the Autobots, he'd thought he was going to die.  When Prowl had "interrogated" him, he'd wished he could die.  Now, he thought he might die of boredom.  His life consisted of staring at a blank cell wall or staring at Rung as he asked goofy questions. Usually while Rung repainted himself.  Maybe the Autobot would actually finish someday if he didn't dab it on bit by bit with that stupidly small paintbrush. He hadn't even gotten his arm done.

The scrawny Autobot never asked about encryption codes or the hidden 'Con base or battle tactics.  It was always weird slag like 'did Deadlock connect well with the other Decepticons' and 'did he see Megatron as more of a mentor than a general' and 'when did Deadlock first become aware of Functionism.'

What kind of question was that, even?  The Functionists controlled the whole _world_ for longer than Deadlock had been alive and they weren't shy about letting everyone know it. 

"Knew about it since I can remember.  Turns out my _function_ was to starve to death in an alley," he growled.  

Watching Rung scribble down his response with a half-maroon, half-blue hand, Deadlock felt an uneasy twist in his tank.  It was a harmless answer to a harmless question.  But why the frag was Rung so _into_ it?

Probably just an act.  Rung probably thought Deadlock was simple.  He probably thought Deadlock was dumb. That all these questions would make Deadlock would let his guard down.  Well, Rung and his big words and his fancy degree wouldn't have lasted five minutes in the Dead End.  Let Rung ask his weird questions.  Whatever.  Deadlock was going to clam up as soon as the little twerp asked for something important.

Today's weird question was about Megatron's poetry, of all things.

First Rung asked him if he'd read it.  Then he asked him if he liked it.

"Yeah," Deadlock said, raising his chin defiantly.  Prowl would definitely have socked him in the jaw for an answer like that, if his hands weren't busy doing something even worse.

"Oh yes?"  Rung smiled at him.  "What was your favorite work of his?"

Deadlock felt . . . insulted somehow.  He was an elite, widely feared Decepticon.  He'd cut a swath through legions of Autobots.  And he'd just admitted to major treason. The Autobots had banned all of Megatron's writings, even his very earliest work which had been nothing but a small, factual pamphlet on proper upkeep of mining drills.  

And here was Rung was acting like they were part of the same book club!

He stared the little bastard straight in the optics, letting his voice take on an even rougher, cruder edge than usual.  "My favorite was the one where he blew the fraggin' head off every senator, one by one."

Rung didn't look angry, he looked thoughtful.  "I assume you're talking about  _The Cards Did Fall,_ which contained a rather obvious metaphor for the destruction of the senate, or his early work, _I Did a-Domble Down the Shale,_ which hid its message behind humorous verse and local vernacular that only fellow miners would be likely to understand?"

Deadlock clenched his jaw, grinding his dentae together as Rung tilted his head, waiting for an answer.  He would die before he admitted that he had never actually read any of Megatron's poetry.

Of course he didn't die.  Rung just smiled and called the guards to take him back.

"Ah, I think I hear them. I hope it's not Shock and Ore this time," Rung murmured to himself, carefully setting his paintbrush down and standing up.  But he paused on his way to the door, dropping his servo to rub Deadlock's head.  Like he was a fraggin' cyberhound or something.  "You know, Deadlock, if you were less unruly you might get further."

"Frag off." Deadlock tried to jerk his head away.  Rung didn't have proper claws or talons, just like he didn't have proper anything-else for an Autobot, but the tips of his fingers came to modest points and he easily held on.  

Still keeping his grip, Rung bent down so that his round red optics were level with Deadlock's.  He was still smiling, but sadly now.  "You do like to do things the hard way, Deadlock.  Don't forget, it's me or Prowl."  His fingers dug in a little deeper.  "Just something to keep in mind."

Deadlock swallowed.  "Yeah, whatever."  But his spark was spinning faster.

* * *

 

Rung leaned back in his chair, removing his optical magnifiers and rubbing a hand over his eyes.  Without moving, he pulled up an internal display of his schedule.  An hour's break followed by three more sessions.  After a moment he edited his schedule, shrinking his break to a half hour and squeezing a fourth session in.  He only needed a half hour to grab some energon from the cafeteria.

Once upon a time, they'd been allowed to have personal energon dispensers in their quarters or offices, but then Ultra Magnus caught wind of bots abusing the privilege.  That's what happened when you accepted rabble into the ranks.  Rung paused at a t-junction of the hall to glance at the holographic radar display projected from his arm.  Its range was quite limited, but sufficient to show Rung a five or six blips moving down the left hallway, while only two to the right. He turned right.

It wasn't that he was afraid of his fellow Autobots;  most of them didn't even notice him.  But it paid to be cautious.

After taking the long way around the base, Rung arrived at the cafeteria.  He paused in the doorway to take in the current occupants.  The lunch rush had already come and gone, leaving but a few Autobots lingering at the plain white tables . . . Jackpot was playing some kind of dice game with Smokescreen, Whirl was chatting with a mini-bot Rung didn't know, and . . . oh dear.  There were Prowl and Jazz in the corner.

Well, there was no help for that.  Rung slipped in and picked up an empty cube.  Squaring his shoulders, he put his back to Prowl as he typed in his passcode and began filling his cube.  The odds were the interrogator wouldn't notice him anyway; not many did.

The energon trickled into the cube . . . Was the dispenser always this slow?  Rung's systems kept trying to switch to a 'high-alert' status and he kept manually canceling them.  He refused to cower in front of someone from his own faction.  But he had the uncomfortable feeling that Prowl's glare was boring its way through his helm . . .

Rung snuck a careful, casual glance over his shoulder.  Prowl was no longer at his table.  So where was he?  Rung swept a wider glance around the room and was relieved to find that Prowl had merely moved to Whirl's table. Rung kept one optic on him while he topped off his drink, and that was why he failed to see the diminutive mini-bot approach from his other side and wind up for a punch.

Rung was more surprised than anything to find himself toppling over from a solid punch to the hip.  His self-defense systems sprang online as soon as he was hit, causing his joints to seize up as he skidded across the floor on a slick pool of spilled energon.  He caught a glimpse of Prowl's smirk before he got up, laughing with Jazz on their way out.

Rung forced himself upright faster than was strictly healthy, his head spinning and his spark churning with fury.  Whirl was striding over, giving him a casual nod as he checked on the mini-bot he'd been chatting with earlier.

"Oh good, you didn't kill him.  This little guy's new, just learning the ropes, and Prowl dared him to—"

"Punch me."

"Right.  To give him a shock.  Like an initiation gag, you know?  I would have stopped him but, hey, it was funny!"

Rung gave Whirl his coldest look at he stood up, dripping energon.  "Hilarious."

"I guess you kind of wasted your ration for the day," Whirl observed.  Rung reminded himself that violence was not his function, no matter how much he wished it was at this moment.

"Whoa, that was a rush."  The mini-bot on the floor sat up, cradling his head in his hands.  He must have been tougher than he looked to regain consciousness so soon.

"Welcome back, shorty!" Whirl said cheerfully.  "So like I was saying, this is Tailgate.  Tailgate, I'd like you to meet Eyebrows."

"That's not really his designation, is it?"

"Nah, it's way less interesting.  It's . . . uh . . ."

Rung could _see_ Whirl searching his memory banks for his name;  he offered no help as Whirl shifted from foot to foot, scratching his arm.

_We've served on the same ship for 70 vorns, you horrible creature._

"—so anyway, _mumble mumble_ , is our . . . therapist?  Hypnotist?  Something like that."

"I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch the name?" Tailgate said, cocking his head.

"He's, you know, _mutter mumble."_

"What?"

"My name is Rung," Rung said, forcing his voice to remain mild.  He wondered why he bothered.  This one wasn't going to remember him either.


End file.
